


Hark and Hush

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester in Purgatory, F/M, Gore, Mildly Dubious Consent, Purgatory, Purgatory Sex, Rough Dean Winchester, Rough Sex, Stalking, This Is Not Your Mother's Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: This is the story of how Dean Winchester hunted, became enamored with, and slew the ancient spirit of the Big Bad Wolf.
Relationships: Dean Winchester x wolf spirit, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Hark and Hush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dawnie7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnie7/gifts).



The mighty hunter Dean Winchester has always been roused by battle. After a fight, he’d find a good meal and a better fuck; and the last week, month, year – he doesn’t know – has been one epic battle after the next.

The hunter finds his natural instincts are sharper in Purgatory. Survival is pure and that frees him. With that freedom comes the odd passage of time.

You know that old saying about time passing in a dream or in Hell or Heaven. There is a saying, isn’t there?

 _Anyway_ , he’s been in Purgatory for a while when he sees her.

She’s long and lean, stealth and agile. She has smooth, ivory skin and sharp white teeth.

Her eyes are blue.

Dean can’t reconcile the pierce of her particular tint even when he allows himself to sleep. They are so bright, he can see the shine from 20 yards away, whether or not she’s looking in his direction.

Her strength and grace are as mesmerizing as the individual parts that make up her body. She’s got to be ancient with the way she moves, preternatural and seamless.

Dean doesn’t know _what_ she is. All he can suss out is that he’s fascinated with her.

One day, perched in a tree, he watches her take a vamp apart, hungrily yet meticulously – joyfully. He cleans its bones like a 4th of July party-goer. He catalogs her every ghastly move and rapturous sound.

He decides she’s a beast inside a beauty all wrapped up in a red dress.

Yes, she wears a red dress in Purgatory.

He’s never thought that a monster – if that’s what she is – feeding could be anything but alarming, signaling him to strike.

But nothing is the way he ever thought it was before Purgatory.

When she’s done, she stands upright, rolls her shoulders and neck then turns. She looks straight at him, ice blue to evergreen. Her tongue begins to clean her blunt teeth and lips as fangs retract.

She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the corner red, as she descends the bolder on which she’d taken her prey. She takes a step then another in the direction of the tree where Dean is perched.

Dean can’t move. He’s so taken with her that he doesn’t even think to be afraid.

They hold each other’s gaze for a seemingly immeasurable length of time before she turns and walks away, leaving Dean to ponder.

The enigmatic creature walks to the stream, humming the jauntiest tune she can recall. She thinks this human man would make a fine meal, but she waits. She’s a skilled hunter herself, after all.

Moreover, she wants him to come to her, willing and wide-eyed. She can see how he looks at her, can smell the shift in his scent when she flexes just right.

He wants her the same way she wants him – to fuck and to fight and maybe to feed.

She’d like to seduce him, but Dean Winchester – the name and reputation she’d overheard before taking out a pack of vamps last week – is a fighter, not a lover. He’s a hunter of all the things that go bump in the night, and she surely qualifies.

That fact is terrifying and invigorating to her. It gives her a rush knowing that he’s watching her. So she puts on a show for him.

Once at the stream, she washes the blood from her face and hands. She wouldn’t normally bother, but she likes to do things that a human who, presumably, is attracted to the female form would like to see.

Then she catches his movement out of the corner of her eye. This is the closest he’s ever been, she realizes. He’s so close she can smell the layers of lust, redolent human, the filth this place departs upon each and every soul, and fear.

Delicious fear.

She mirrors his caution as she stands from the stream and slowly turns.

“I can smell you, you know,” she says, lilting her voice as not to give away her own tremble of excitement. She shoots for soothing and pulls off sultry.

She thinks that’ll do just as well.

“Pretty impressive kill back there, sweetheart,” he drawls, stepping out of the trees.

His tone, she hadn’t heard it until now, wraps her in velvet as lush as the bodice of her crimson gown.

She faces him. Up close he’s stunning, really. Underneath the grime, even in this low light, she can appreciate the cut of his jaw, the dusting of freckles on pinked cheeks, the symmetry – _oh, the symmetry of this man_ , she thinks.

He’s wielding the grotesquely elegant axe she watched him craft last week. He seems proud of his creation. She wants to compliment that.

“That’s quite the instrument of death,” she replies, gesturing to his handiwork.

Dean fills with pride, lets it fuel his bravado.

“We gonna pat each other on the back all day, or’re we gonna fight?” he asks, squaring his shoulders. He watches her eyes flare as he does it; they dance across his chest before dragging back up to his face.

She licks her lips. “Your jacket,” she begins, taking a step, then another. “It’s red, isn’t it.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Dean continues to be nonplussed by her every move and word.

“Why, you wanna borrow it?” he asks, unmoving as she draws closer; but he’s ready. If she strikes, he’ll be ready. He’s seen every move she has.

Hasn’t he?

“It’s ironic,” she murmurs, raking her eyes over him. “The story always says little _red_ riding hood.”

“And you’re the big bad wolf?” Dean asks, turning to ensure that his back is never facing her.

Her bright gaze snaps to his and he feels the chill in it.

“Holy shit,” he mutters and hardens himself to metal. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

She straightens as her head tilts. Their interaction is a morbid dance to fight or flight, kill or fuck - polarized in every direction.

Dean’s usual play is to go for the pretty girl, make her feel good, feel good himself.

But this is no girl, and this is no time for usual plays.

His mind races to remember – how did the hunter kill the wolf? Or was it the girl who killed the wolf? Or, wait, he thinks, maybe the wolf killed both grandma and the girl?

He hefts his weapon, weighs his options.

“The story,” she continues quietly, holding his gaze. “The real story was that I killed the grandmother, waited for the girl, fed her elder to her as a warm stew, then bedded her before eating her myself.”

Dean nods. “Is that right?” he questions, wondering if the big bad wolf reads minds now.

There’s a flicker in his eyes. She tries to define it but can’t before it’s gone.

“Yes,” she answers plainly. “From what I hear, Dean Winchester, _you_ could qualify as a big bad wolf.”

He flinches. She finds his flinch to be as curious as she found the flicker in his eyes.

“Listen, lady, I don’t eat people, okay?” He seems very uncomfortable with her insinuation.

“We can skip that part if you’d like,” she answers, thinking an olive branch might be apropos.

At least for the meanwhile.

Dean flushes red. She relishes the color and how it permeates their time together.

“So you wanna fuck, is that it?” Dean asks wryly. “Like magical friends with benefits?”

“If you’re into that kind of thing,” she says.

He nods without moving any other muscle in his body. She is entranced with this simple human. He’s nothing like the hunter in the story.

She would never compromise with the hunter in the story.

“I’ve seen you feed, darlin’,” he says pointedly, as he begins to move. He makes to circle her just as she was doing moments before. “You need it like nothin’ else. How’m I to know this isn’t just a play?”

“You don’t,” she answers. “But I think we might be able to help each other out, don’t you?”

She feels herself begin to drool and swallows it back. There’s no reason to alarm him with associations to her appetite. She’s genuinely curious about what it would be like to be with a man like this one.

Then he moves forward. It’s intriguing to her to have a mere mortal man who knows what she is to so assuredly move into her space. She feels an entirely different kind of wetness seep between her thighs.

“And then what?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave. “We part ways like nothing ever happened? You stay in your lane; I stay in mine?”

Neither of them speaks for three breaths. She seems to be considering his words.

Dean begins to parse all the possibilities of what could happen next. Then she reaches for him, and he grabs her wrist. He holds her hand inches from his jaw.

“Your skin,” she says, her eyes beginning to bleed black pupils into the blue rings. “You’re stunning.”

Dean feels his pants tighten. Her nearness, her sweet voice, her words - they are the elements that make up his kryptonite. She’s so obviously turned on by him.

He takes a risk and yanks her into his body, gripping the back of her neck with the hand that retains his weapon and crashes his mouth to hers.

Then it really hits him just how long it’s been since he’s had this, just how badly he needs it.

She tastes like his gun smells when he cleans it plus something sweet. Dean won’t ever admit that it’s likely the blood and meat and guts of the vamp she just devoured and that it turns him on even more to know it.

The axe in his hand tangles and tears at her hair, but she couldn’t care less. She cannot wait to consume him whole.

He releases her wrist to work his belt and pants open, keeping his mouth on hers. Then he’s got a hold on her again. She could break it, sure, but then she wouldn’t get to experience the pleasure side of the hunter.

They lick into each other, dance around until they’re stumbling into mud and water.

Dean grunts into her mouth and lifts her. She sighs and wraps her legs around his waist as he sinks to the ground.

She thinks for a fleeting second that he’s giving her the upper hand, but, no, he rolls them until she’s under him and they’re both caked with mud.

The cool stream trickles alongside them as Dean pushes her legs open with his own. He’s using most of his weight to pin her arms in place with his forearms.

And he still has his axe in hand.

“Hunter,” she growls when he stops kissing her to focus on pushing inside her without his hands or hers.

Dean keens as he sinks into the smothering fire of her cunt. He drops his forehead to hers as he sets a rhythm, kneeing onto her open thighs to keep her in place.

She mutters things he’s never heard as she pants beneath him. The wet slap of water and mud as he fucks into her fills his ears and he prays that it will drown out her maniacal chatter.

“Feel me,” she breathes, and Dean nods.

“Oh, I feel ya,” he seethes through the fog of violence and reward.

Dean hammers into her slow but hard, and she cries with every thrust. Before he expects it, she roars, squeezing her eyes shut tight.

The sensation he feels then is like nothing he’s ever felt before or since. He feels her pulling him in - completely. He comes with a shout of his own, trying to catch his breath and find solid ground.

When she opens her eyes, they’re murderous, grey like the sky; and when she opens her mouth it’s full of razors.

She lunges upward, throwing him off her body and springs to her feet.

He should’ve seen this coming; he knows it.

Dean didn’t lose his weapon, though, and he swings sure and true. Then, in the last millisecond, he remembers.

_“…so he did not fire, but took a pair of scissors, and began to cut open the stomach of the sleeping wolf.”_

Dean angles his wrist at the right second, just as she comes down upon the blade which tears through her from bowels to sternum.

Guts pour from the opening over Dean’s prone form and bleed into the river as falls beside him. When he looks her in the face, she’s staring dead-eyed into his soul.

The hunter sighs heavily and drags a hand over his face before rolling away from her to his side, then standing. He shakes the gore from his pants and brushes it from his sleeves before washing his hands in the stream.

As he turns to leave her behind, he takes one last look to see her body float away to the sea.


End file.
